Disclaimer: Listen, my children, and you shall hear, of a mysterious phantom who all learned to fear. In the year of two thousand and four, there is hardly a phan who could ask more of Andrew Lloyd Webber and his sheer…brilliance. Yes, that means ALW owns the musical, not me. And Gaston Leroux owns the original book. Sorry, Monsieur Leroux…I don't feel like writing any more poetry.
Chapter Four
"I got it! I got it! I got it!" Christine sang, doing her little happy dance. "I got it! I got it! I got-"
"Root beer on me!" Meg announced, carrying an armful of bottled root beer into her cubicle, which was immediately swarmed by their closest friends. It was a lively party, even though they didn't have a lot to celebrate. Kaila Towerson suggested singing "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow", but Meg objected.
"We can't sing that until she gets promoted!" she insisted. "And that brings us to the important matter of this gathering…lights, please!"
The lights flicked off. Several people who were actually working shouted complaints, but Meg paid them no heed. She turned on a flashlight and held it under her chin, making a grotesque face. "MUAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!" she cackled. "Nah, I'm just kidding." She shone the light in Christine's face. "Christine Daae! You are about to start a perilous journey, and Journalism Law states that you must be initiated in the proper fashion. Are you ready to begin?"
"Sure, whatever," Christine muttered, squinting and shielding her face. "Would you mind shining that somewhere else? Thanks."
Meg set the flashlight on her desk so that it shone on the ceiling, the closest thing they could get to a bonfire. "We shall begin now," she announced gravely, looking at Christine with a serious expression. "Are all the council members present? Wait a second, where's Sam?"
"Sammy? I think she's absent today," Kaila said.
"No, she isn't!" Jessie cut in. "She's here. SAM!" she bellowed, poking her head out of the cubicle. "Samantha Marjon, get your butt over here!"
"I'm coming! Jeez!" Sam's voice shouted from the other side of the room. "There's no reason to use my full name!"
"Be happy I didn't say your middle name!" Jessie yelled. "I will, if you don't get over here now!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Sam crashed through the narrow aisle and squeezed, panting, into the throng. She glared at Jessie, who smiled cutely and wrinkled her nose.
"All right, now that all the council members are finally present," Meg said, shooting an angry glare at Sam, "we can begin the ritual."
"The ritual!" the other journalists echoed in a hushed whisper.
"Okay, guys? This is really wei-" Christine started, but Meg cut her off.
"Do not speak! You will ruin the spiritual balance of the ritual!"
"The ritual!" everyone echoed. Christine rolled her eyes.
"Christine Daae, in order to join us among the ranks of reporters, you must write an article for our newspaper, The Hayfield Times!" Meg announced. "Your article must be superb, popular, and error-free at all costs! You must find a topic that will interest and intrigue all readers, no matter what their interests are. You must write a news article, for any doofus can write a feature or opinion. It takes a writer of supreme caliber to write a news article worthy of The Hayfield Times! Do you accept your challenge, young intern?"
"Ummmmmm…sure." Christine backed away from the slightly-maniacal Meg.
"Then from this moment onward you are on the clock!" Meg shouted. "We go to press on Wednesday, after school! That gives you FOUR days to find a topic, FOUR DAYS to write an article, and FOUR DAYS to edit it! FOUR! That is, unless you count Wednesday before we print, and I don't, so FOUR! In case I didn't stress it enough earlier, F-O-U-R! F-O-U-R! FOUR!"
"I get it!" Christine yelped, ducking. Meg was now lashing out at Christine with a folded-up newspaper, punctuating each letter of the word "four" with a swipe.
"No, you don't!" Meg roared, hitting Christine even harder. "If you got it you would be running for your life right now! You would be anxiously scouring this school for a newsworthy topic! You would be…hey, give that back!"
The "council members" had grabbed Meg's newspaper in an attempt to save the poor intern. "Pipe down, Meg! Give her a chance to breathe!"
"Fine," Meg growled. She suddenly looked thoughtful. "I feel like I'm forgetting something…"
"Confetti!" the journalists roared. About a ton of confetti poured down onto Christine's head. Christine shrieked and brushed herself off frantically, which didn't work.
"WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT FOR?" she bellowed.
"Good luck," Meg said, grinning broadly. "It's part of the ritual."
"The ritual!"
"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU! ARGH!" Christine grabbed the confiscated newspaper and started whacking Meg over the head.
"It's just a little confetti!" Meg wailed, cowering in the corner. "Stop spazzing out!"
"A little confetti?" Christine gasped, absolutely seething. "Meg, you freakin' drenched me in the stuff!"
"Okay, so maybe it was a lot. But that's okay. Everyone's going to help clean up, right?" Meg looked up hopefully at her friends. At that moment, the bell rang, and all the journalists disappeared. Christine grabbed her backpack and stormed out of the cubicle.
"Good luck cleaning that up," she snarled. "You've got five minutes. And check your email tonight. I plan to send you a lengthy email full of insults, obscenities, and a list of how many times you broke the school rules with your stupid ritual."
"The ritual!"
"SHUT…UP!"
Christine opened the door and stepped into the dark, deserted Journalism room. It was lunchtime, and anyone in their right mind would be stuffing their face with the French Silk Pie that the cafeteria served on Friday. Christine could just imagine the smooth chocolate on her tongue, and wished she could be downstairs enjoying it. But alas, she couldn't. Christine had forgotten her cell phone in Meg's cubicle.
"YEEOWCH!" Christine howled, jumping up and down on one foot, holding the other. Somehow she had managed to stub her toe on a desk that was twenty feet to the left of the door. She doubled back and flipped the light switch, illuminating the labyrinth of cubicles. Limping slightly, she trudged through to Meg's workspace, which was full of the usual clutter, not to mention ten tons of confetti.
"When I get my own cubicle, I'm going to be so organized that Meg will look like a pig," Christine grumbled as she sifted through piles of paper. "And I'll never ever bring any confetti in. Oooooooh…Meg's diary!" She pulled the little book out and flipped through Meg's tales of woes, joys, and boys.
"Is your coworker's private information interesting?" The lights flicked off, plunging Christine into complete darkness.
Christine squeaked and jumped, the book flying from her hands. "It's not what it looks like!" she shouted immediately, then realized she was alone. "Oh…Angel, is that you?"
"Yes, Christine, it's me. Why are you scrounging through Meg Giry's possessions?"
"I was looking for my cell phone," Christine said, hanging her head guiltily. "I…I guess a have an insatiable curiosity. I couldn't resist the thought of Meg's diary."
"Either that or you're just nosy." Christine couldn't tell if the Angel was reprimanding her or just expressing amusement, so she said nothing. She heard something fall to the ground with a soft thump. "Here." She picked the object up and found it was her missing cell phone.
"Thank you!" she said happily, tucking it away in her purse.
"I heard you got a space in the newspaper."
Christine itched her scalp and shuddered as bits of confetti fell out of her hair. "Yes, that's right. The others put me through their silly ritual."
"Have you thought of anything to write about?"
Christine shook her head. "No. But I've got time. I'll figure something out over the weekend, probably. That'll give me a few days to write my article, which should be just enough time."
"Yes, especially for such an accomplished journalist like you. If I recall correctly, you know how to attribute quotes, you know how to conduct an interview, and you can work InDesign with your eyes closed. Writing should be easy." Christine smiled as the sarcasm dripped from the ceiling and landed in a pool at her feet. She shrugged.
"Well, I can! That stuff's easy. I don't suppose writing would be…" she broke off, feeling the color drain from her face.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't write!" Christine wailed. "I don't know how! I put on such a big show about my hidden talents, and now those two blokes will realize I was bluffing! Oh, I'm an idiot! I have no idea how to write an article! I can write research papers and stuff like that, but an article? Sandy was right…"
"I could help you."
Christine froze. She looked up at the ceiling. "You could? Can you write?"
A laugh followed her words. "My dear, I think you forget that I am not just your Angel of Music. I'm the Drama Ghost, the Phantom of the Fine Arts! The master of all forms of art, the ruler of all creativity! Of course I can write."
Christine bowed her head. "Of course. Forgive me, Angel, I forgot."
"You are forgiven. I will help you write your article, but we must meet here, during lunch. Every other day, starting on Monday. You must have no distractions. No missing lessons, no being late for lessons, no iPods or cell phones during lessons…and no boyfriends ever. You'll become the best writer this school has ever seen. "
"Thank you, Angel," Christine whispered excitedly. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment as her stomach grumbled loudly.
"Go get some French Silk Pie," her Angel ordered. Christine smiled and happily obliged.
"Five, four, three, two, one…now!" Complete silence met Meg's countdown.
"Your watch is a few minutes off," Christine informed her.
Meg scratched her head and frowned at her watch. "But I set it when the bell rang this morning! The bell should have rung ten, eleven, twelve seconds ago!"
The bell rang, signaling the beginning of fifth period. Christine and Meg continued down the hallway to the girls' locker room at a leisurely pace. Since they went to change before the teacher took attendance, there was no way any student could be late for gym. When they reached the locker room, however, the two girls met a big crowd of both boys and girls standing around the locked door.
"May I have your attention, please?" somebody shouted from the center of the crowd. Christine stood on tiptoe and saw the two gym teachers, Mr. Cookley and Mr. Sonic, trying to quiet down the crowd. Fed up, Mr. Cookley stuck his whistle in his mouth and covered his ears, delivering a sharp, loud blast that quieted everyone immediately.
"Finally!" Mr. Sonic grumbled. "Took you long enough!"
"Everybody drop and give me twenty!" Mr. Cookley bellowed.
Groaning, everyone got down on the dirty floor and followed his orders.
"All right, I have an announcement to make!" Mr. Sonic announced when they were done. "The administration is changing the schedules again! Fifth period will now be having gym fourth period, before lunch instead of after. Your fourth period class will become your fifth period class. Nobody will be taking Latin anymore. Instead, you have a full year of General Music."
"Like what we took in elementary school?"
Christine jumped as she realized Raoul Chagny was standing right next to her. She barely heard Mr. Cookley answer his question; she was too busy staring at Raoul's green eyes.
"Yes, very much like what you took in elementary school," Mr. Coakley told him. "Singing, dancing, recorders…" Everyone groaned.
"If I'd wanted to sing I would've signed up for chorus!" Meg grumbled.
"They need to stop messing up our schedules," Christine muttered darkly. She did not want to sing. Did not.
"We won't be dressing out today! Just go to the gym and hang out for the rest of the period," Mr. Sonic ordered.
In the gym, the students talked for a few minutes about the injustices of the administration. Then the people who had iPods pulled them out and blocked out the unlucky people who didn't. Christine was one of those unlucky people. She declined Meg's offer to share her earbuds so that she could study for the pop quiz she was sure to have in History. Suddenly, her cell phone started vibrating. She found that somebody had text messaged her.
A little bird told me about your schedule change.
While your dilemma is most entertaining, I sympathize.
-AoM
Christine grinned and tucked her cell phone back into her purse. Did her Angel of Music follow her wherever she went? The thought gave her a strange, mysterious feeling of safety. For the rest of the period Christine hummed to herself, doodling on scrap paper and forgetting all about the History quiz. The feeling didn't leave her when she and Meg visited their lockers after class.
"Do you know what you're going to write your article about?" Meg asked as she shoved books into her cramped locker.
"No," Christine answered, neatly stacking her binders on a shelf in her locker. "I'll think about it over the weekend…I can't concentrate now."
"You procrastinator!" Meg cried, pointing an accusing finger at Christine.
"I'm not procrastinating!" Christine defended herself. "I'm prioritizing my work load."
Meg rolled her eyes. "Yeah, sure," she muttered. "Just wait. It'll be Wednesday morning and you'll have no story."
Christine snorted. "Like that's going to happen!"
"Help me, Meg!" Christine wailed. "It's Wednesday morning and I don't have a story!"
"I told you so!" Meg said, typing on her computer. "Didn't I tell you so? Now you've gone and let the newspaper down and ruined your chances of getting promoted. Maybe I didn't use enough confetti…" She scratched her chin thoughtfully, then returned to work. "You're on your own, chickie. If I were you, I would take my press pass and go look for something halfway decent to write about."
Christine sighed miserably and dug her press pass out of a drawer in Meg's desk, along with her completely blank reporter's notebook. "I'll see you later," she told Meg as she trudged out the door.
The first Christine noticed when she stepped into the hallway was that it was too quiet. There was nobody in the hallway, which was unusual when there was ten minutes before class started. She walked through the hall, her footsteps echoing loudly. The main hall downstairs was completely empty, too. Christine was beginning to get very suspicious.
"Christine!"
She jumped, looking around for the source of the noise. To her left, a janitorial closet door creaked open on its own. Shuddering slightly, Christine slipped inside.
"You don't have an article written."
Christine slouched shamefacedly. "I know."
"Why don't you have a story?"
"I couldn't find anything to write about," Christine mumbled.
"If I were you, I would go out to the front of the school and see what's going on. Take a look, and then meet me outside the auto shop in ten minutes."
"Okay." Christine slipped out of the closet and ran down the hallway. She burst through the front doors and stopped in front of a big crowd that was gathered around a fenced-off construction site. Her eyes widened. "OH MY GOSH! IT'S BEE DIDDY!"
Bee Diddy, the most popular teen singing sensation of the day, was standing in the fenced-off area for her own protection, it seemed. Policemen were forcing floods of screaming students away from the fence, shouting that they were not allowed to go near her, and that went for the press as well. That didn't stop the reporters and cameramen from getting as close to the fence as possible.
Christine ran around the crowd to the auto shop. "Angel?" she panted.
"Christine, look over at the crowd. See that gap in the fence?"
Christine squinted. "Yes…but there are lots of construction vehicles behind it," she groaned. "I'd get squished!"
"Are you dedicated enough?"
Christine watched a bulldozer mow down a brick wall, then glanced down at the press pass that was hanging from her neck. "Yes," she whispered. She approached the gap in the fence and looked fearfully at the roving construction vehicles.
"You can do it, Christine. I know you can." The smooth comforted her a little.
"Okay," Christine said, taking a deep breath."
"Go, Christine…NOW!"
Christine plunged through the gap and bolted toward the other side of the construction site. She swerved to avoid a rumbling steam shovel and almost got caught by a bulldozer in the process. Christine ran on, gasping for breath. She jumped over a large pipe and ducked under a lifting machine. She then became aware of a deafening roar.
"GO CHRISTINE!"
Her peers were cheering for her! Christine couldn't help smiling. They were cheering her on, yelling scrambled out of the way of an enormous crane that was rolling by and jumped onto a cement mixing truck that rumbled by. She clung to the truck, willing herself not to fall off. The truck took her to the edge of the construction site, where she jumped off, to tumultuous applause. Smiling, Christine skipped over to Bee Diddy.
"Good morning, Miss Bee Diddy," she said cheerfully, turning on the old charm. "My name is Christine Daae, reporting for The Hayfield Times. I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me."
Bee smiled broadly. "Sure! I'd love to. You see, the whole reason I came here was to interact with the students, but they're not letting me anywhere near them!"
"Exactly why are you interacting with the students?" Christine asked, scribbling in her reporter's notebook.
"I'm here to promote the music program," Bee answered. "To kick off the General Music course."
"What sort of things will you be doing?" Christine asked.
"Well, today I was going to just talk with people, maybe go around to all the classrooms," Bee said crossly, "but you see what happened there. Stupid policemen. So my agent and I are spending the night in a hotel, and tomorrow I'm going to sing here for a surprise concert. Nobody knows about it except you, me, my agent, my band, and your principal. So people are going to freak out when they read about it in the paper."
"Yes, they certainly will," Christine agreed. "Did you take any music classes in school?"
"I took band for a few years," Bee said. "I played the bass clarinet, and was pretty good at it. Then in seventh grade I started taking chorus, and I found that I loved to sing. That's what sparked me to try out for American Idol."
"Did you always love music?" Christine asked.
"Yes! Most definitely," Bee answered. "When I was a little girl my mother would tell me the story of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music, and…"
"I absolutely adore that story!" Christine gasped.
"Isn't it just wonderful?" Bee squealed. "It's so cute and touching! The Little Lotte stories inspired me to play the bass clarinet."
"One more question," Christine said, flipping to a clean page in her notebook. "What's your real name?"
Bee laughed. "Ha! No one's asked me that before! My real name is Rebecca Grace Redfrond."
"Thank you, Bee!" Christine said happily, closing her notebook. "I'd better get going."
"Be careful out there," Bee advised. "I saw you almost get slammed a few times. Do you want to go out another way?"
Christine looked out at the screaming crowds. "Personally, I think it's safer the other way," she laughed. "Thank you, though!"
"Bye!"
Christine ran back the way she came. She dodged and ducked, bobbed and weaved through the big, yellow trucks. She was almost back to the gap when a chunk of metal fell onto her back, knocking her over. Her reporter's notebook flew out of her hand and into a small gutter.
"No!" Christine wailed. "My story!" She dived across to the gutter, reaching in as far as she could. She couldn't reach! A rumbling sound made her look up. A huge plow was coming toward her, ripping up the sidewalk. It was going to kill the gutter, and murder her notebook while it was at it! Christine reached farther and realized that if she didn't move, she and her notebook were going down together. But she had to get it out! Christine strained her muscles, stretching as far as she possibly could. But her arm was just too short. The plow came nearer and nearer, spitting chunks of cement off the sides of the shovel. "Angel, help me!" Christine shrieked over the noise.
A black glove reached up through the gutter and knocked the notebook into Christine's hand. She threw herself out of the way just as the plow destroyed the gutter. Breathing heavily, Christine picked herself up and ran to the gap in the fence, unharmed save for a scratch or two.
"Christine!" Meg yelled, running to meet her friend. "I got a phone call about ten minutes ago saying you ran through the construction zone to talk to Bee Diddy! Is it true?"
"Yeah, it's true," Christine panted and leaned against the side of the cubicle. She waved her notebook. "I've got it all in here. I have to write it down now…"
The bell rang. Meg winced. "Oooooh…not good. Can you do it over lunch?"
Christine nodded. "I'll go do it in the library," she said, although she was actually thinking about how she would sneak off to the deserted journalism room and write her article under her Angel's guiding eye.
All through second, third, and fourth periods Christine couldn't stop thinking about her article. It wasn't entirely her fault; her classmates kept asking her questions about her interview. Even Raoul Chagny congratulated her on "not getting squished dead," although Christine had heard from a very reliable source that he was only talking to her because he lost a bet and had to.
Finally, the fourth period bell rang and Christine exploded out of the door of the girls' locker room. She ran through the hallway, skidding over the freshly-waxed tile, and hustled up the stairs to the journalism room. When she was sure no one was watching her, Christine slipped inside.
"Angel?" she called. "Are you here?"
"Always," was the smooth reply. "Get to work immediately. Remember what we talked about on Monday. I'll look it over when you're done."
Christine sat down to work at Meg's computer and typed for fifteen minutes straight. "I'm done!" she said when she had finished.
"Read it to me."
"The students of Hayfield High were shocked when they arrived at school on Wednesday to see teen sensation Bee Diddy making herself comfortable on a bench," Christine read out loud. "What do you think? Good lead?"
"Yes. It's informative and fits the one-sentence format. Continue."
"The students were unaware that Bee Diddy had arrived to kick off the new music program, in which General Music is introduced. She was happy to share some insight on her intentions.
"So…what does she plan on doing? "Well, today I was going to just talk with people, maybe go around to all the classrooms," Bee grumbled-"
"Said."
"Sorry?"
"When using the Associated Press style, it's always 'said.' Never 'grumbled,' 'whispered,' 'giggled,' et cetera."
"Oh, thanks." Christine fixed her mistake. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. "…Bee said, "but you see what happened there." Bee Diddy's plans were disrupted when she was attacked by a mob of screaming fans. Fearing for the pop star's safety, policemen moved her into a fenced-off construction zone. They declared that it was too risky for Bee to interact with the students, so instead the singer will get a day off.
"Bee Diddy assured The Hayfield Times that she has always loved music. She states that her first musical love, the bass clarinet, was inspired by the story of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music. Those of you who have heard the story know all about Little Lotte's adventures with her Angel of Music, the spiritual being who visits musicians of all kinds. The story says that musicians who have been visited by the Angel of Music have 'genius' and a superb talent for making music. These stories led to Bee's band days, which led to her chorus years, which led to her debut on American Idol.
"Bee Diddy has a special event planned for Hayfield- a free live concert! On Thursday at 8:00 students will be asked to go to the Theater, where they will be greeted by loud music, an energetic band, and their favorite singer! It's not an event anyone will want to miss! The Hayfield Times has been told that Bee Diddy will be available for autographs and pictures after the concert, so stick around!
"We all love the mystery and goofiness of Bee Diddy's name. But does anyone actually know her real name? On Wednesday morning Bee Diddy revealed to the press that her real name is Rebecca Grace Redfrond. Just something to stew over while waiting for that concert!"
"Very good. Much better than that sample you wrote on Monday."
Christine blushed. "Thanks," she said softly, grinning. "Do you think the editors will like it?"
"If they don't, they'll reveal once and for all that they really are idiots and blubbering fools. You did very nicely, Christine. If I were you, I would get going. Fifth period starts in five minutes."
Christine jumped and glanced at her watch. The Angel was right. "Wow…I didn't realize it was so late!" she gasped. She gathered up her things and headed for the door. "Until Friday?"
"Friday. Don't be late."
"I won't!" Christine assured him as she pulled the door closed.
Christine was sitting on the bus, twiddling her thumbs. She was bored, and she kept getting the feeling that she was forgetting something. She had checked the contents of her backpack twice; everything was there. She was beginning to get really annoyed.
"Hey, Christine?" Christine turned around to see a girl named Ritwikha looking oddly at her. "Don't you have to stay after for Journalism?"
Christine gasped. "Oh my gosh, you're right! Thanks!" She gathered up her stuff and walked toward the door, which swung shut the moment she got there. "I have to get off!" she begged the bus driver. "It's important!"
Grumbling, the driver opened the doors again. "Thank you!" Christine said, jumping off. She ran through the parking lot and through the front doors. However, she was met by a sea of lingering students, which would be very hard to get through. Muttering darkly to herself, Christine turned and raced around the side of the school to the auto shop, where she let herself in through an open garage door. The auto shop was very far away from the journalism room, so Christine ended up being ten minutes late.
"Hold the press!" she screamed, bursting through the door. "I've got the scoop on Bee Diddy!"
"It's about time!" Meg huffed, looking relieved as she skidded over to her friend's side. "We didn't think you would show up. Did you get the article done?"
"Yes!" Christine said, running over to the editors' desk. Andre and Firmin glared at her.
"You're late!" Firmin grumbled. "We were about to fill your column up with advertisements!"
"Yeah, but I've got an important story!" Christine said quickly, shoving her article into Andre's hands. "It's about Bee Diddy!" Andre scanned the article, his eyes growing wide. "What do you think?" Christine asked, still panting slightly. "Good enough for that column?"
"Column?" Andre repeated, staring wide-eyed at Christine. "This needs to go on the front page!" He ran over to Sandy's closet and let himself in. A moment later Christine heard Sandy scream loudly and angrily. She didn't give a darn. As far as she cared, Christine was a reporter, and Sandy was a worthless pageboy. Or girl. Whatever.
A/N: Heeheehee. I love the pageboy jibe. This chapter turned out to be better than I expected. For me, anyway. What did you think? There's nothing like a bit of healthy foreshadowing! I apologize for the late update. I'm trying to get my schedule back on track, but I've just realized that I never had a schedule to begin with. That makes it kind of hard to get back on track. Anyway, please review! Please? I love getting feedback, and I would appreciate any tips or hints that you would like to point out. Go easy on Christine's article…I know it's not the best work in the world, but it's good enough for my purposes. In the next chapter, a person from Christine's past shows up...I doubt the Phantom will be happy! Thanks for reading The Hayfield Times!